


a thousand paper cranes

by memento_amare



Series: old work (from Tumblr) [6]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Universe, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hospitals, I am bad at tags, Pining, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, kind of?, reader's mom is sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26314864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memento_amare/pseuds/memento_amare
Summary: He will be your summer warmth, and you fly to him on paper wings.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji & Reader, Akaashi Keiji/Reader
Series: old work (from Tumblr) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1911856
Kudos: 48





	a thousand paper cranes

there is a system ingrained in his bones, step-by-step procedures, a list never-ending. align corners and fold; flip to the other side and repeat. his wrists flick a perfect crease each toss, and he watches with satisfaction as their spikers fly––the last step in folding a crane is to gently open its wings.

it is ancient folklore, one every japanese would probably have heard of as a child: fold a thousand paper cranes and the gods will grant you a single wish. 

“you left this yesterday,” he says, placing a single white crane on your table, still folded as perfectly as it was when he first saw it.

“oh!” you say, picking it up by its tail, “thank you, akaashi-san. congrats on your last game, by the way.”

“it’s no problem, and thank you, l/n-san.”

he considers you as a friend, born from the circumstances of sitting beside each other. you whisper side comments when your teachers are being an ass, and he stifles a laugh when it’s a particularly good one. every time you hear it, you flash him a lopsided smile. there is always a paper crane on your table, each disappearing in your bag at the start of the next period only for a new one to take its place at the end of it.

the teacher is late, and to pass the time, he calls your name and asks if you could show him how to fold one. you pass the time aligning corner to corner, crease, repeat. when the teacher finally arrives, there are two paper cranes on the corner of your desk. he loves the sharpness that comes out of each crease, a precision not unlike a toss on the court.

he asks you during lunch break one day if you are going for a thousand. you nod proudly: you are six hundred strong, you aim to be done before november. when you say november there is a look about your eyes, a sadness as sharp and delicate as the cranes you fold.

he doesn’t ask. he simply gives you another crane and says that you add it to your count. he brings his own paper at some point, and you accept his cranes in silent gratitude. there is something about the tradition that is not meant to be said: a thousand paper cranes are usually gifts—to newlyweds,

or the gravely ill.

it’s september—seven hundred and fifty-two cranes in—when he meets your mother for the first time. the walls are paperwhite, and so is the bed. he bows and introduces himself, and by the end of it he is endeared to her. she drifts off to sleep after the doctor comes in and says that she must rest. that’s your cue to leave. 

your smile disappears as the door closes behind you. the hospital hallway is november cold and you fear that you are running out of time. his voice is firm, and he says that if she is anything like you, she will get better.

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“well, you’re both fighters, aren’t you?”

your lower lip wobbles and you don’t protest as he folds his arms around you.

he invites you to his games in october—eight hundred seventy-seven cranes in––and you watch in awe at his own form of origami: sharp-creased tosses that help his teammates fly on man-made wings. they win, of course, but you see his frown when he looks away from the cheering crowd.

you find him outside.

“you’re troubled.”

he feigns ignorance, saying that he was alright, there was nothing to worry about––

you sit down quietly beside him. “it’s alright,” you whisper. “you don’t have to say anything.” you continue. “akaashi-kun, you’re one of the most talented players on the court. you’re vice-captain despite being a second-year, and even the third-years look up to you. you’ve always been enough for them.”

he says nothing, but he allows you to wrap your arms around him.

as you grow closer and nights grow colder (nine hundred cranes into late october), he unfolds his paper of lists never-ending. it is a mobiüs strip where he runs and runs but can’t find the end, thinking he’s finally on the other side only to end up back where he was before. 

it is painfully slow, but you carefully cut across to break the shape of infinity, until, at precisely nine hundred and ninety-nine cranes in, there is nothing left but a short strip of paper. there are two sides now and not one, and he finds the other in the way you fold into his arms.

you text him last night that you finished the last one, and he calls you at one in the morning just to say, “congratulations, you did it.”

“we did it, akaashi-kun. i couldn’t have done it without you.” a pause. “thank you.”

there is a strange lull to settle back into, the urge to fold a piece of paper only to realize that it was no longer necessary. he shares this with you, and you laugh, nodding. you’re so used to spending lunch together, but because it is no longer filled with your usual activity, you resort to what normal people do––talk and eat. the task may have been completed, but the gods have not spoken yet; he sees this in your eyes. it is well and truly november now, and he fears that if things do not go well, you will fold into yourself, so much so that not even he can undo it.

a few days later you are absent from school. he feels his heart holding its breath.

you call him during lunch-break laughing and crying. he makes out the words “surgery”, “success”, “discharged”, and “christmas”, and his heart finally gasps for air.

he gifts you another paper crane when you’re back, and you are confused. “open it,” he says.

the crane loses shape into a creased piece of square paper, and he feels it like his heart is being unfolded to you. your eyes glaze over his words, and you throw around him paper wings that flutter in the wind, and you are laughing. 

there is a system ingrained in his bones, step-by-step procedures. he learns to love you in origami, folding as his heart instructed, each crease sharp, delicate and full of care. you gifted him birds of peace in place of lists never-ending, and he knows every paper cut is worth seeing your love take flight.


End file.
